


Whose woods these are

by Cygnete



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (in case that triggers anyone), Celegorm and Orome first meet, I love you so much I wrote your favorites for you, M/M, Not quite as shippy as I wanted it to be, There is a lot of disscussion of parental figures, Years of the Trees, also Happy Birthday to June!, and feelings of not being wanted and not fitting in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygnete/pseuds/Cygnete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I think I know.</i>
</p><p>A fic in which Celegorm and Oromë first meet, and not quite how Celegorm intended for it to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whose woods these are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts).



> -throws flower petals into the air- Happy Birthday, @LiveOakWithMoss!! This is probably the last thing you were expecting from me, and although I do not have your birthday artwork complete, at least I can say that I did, in fact, write you a fic of your OTP...

Tyelkormo’s family had always been very into making things.

He found there were many moments in his childhood where he remembered being placed in a corner of his father’s forge, or being seated by his mother’s sculpting table with the little animal figurines she carved for him. But he was never content to sit and watch them work, nor was he content to learn to craft as they did, and he always found some way to pry their attention.

Yet he always marveled at their ability to create something from nothing, although he never found the same instinct within himself. He was far too impatient for careful planning, his attention never fully focused on any type of craft. He was good at fletching arrows he knew, but found it difficult to gather the discipline to sit there and work on them. The first few times he tried he only finished three or four, more eager to shoot than to make.

“Patience, my hasty one.” His mother would say as he would protest and squirm, ready to be free from her chalky art studio. “We will go to the forest soon, worry not.”

The forest was always his favorite place.

His father used to take him and his brothers away in the woods for hunting trips and hiking. Tyelkormo would always run ahead, happy to have the soft earth beneath his feet, the clean air of the hills and the mountains in his lungs. He climbed trees and rocks and came back to his father and brothers with twigs in his hair and bruises on his knees and mud on his face. He would chase the birds and even caught black-caps and sparrows and spoke to them, though at the time he knew not if they understood him, and he could not understand them.

His first hunting trip remained vivid in his memory for a long time.

It was just Tyelkormo and Fëanáro, and he was quite young. His father commissioned a bow as a begetting day present for him, just his size and perfectly crafted with a deep stain finish. He remembered his first kill, and how proudly his father smiled (the first time he had truly given Tyelkormo that smile, for once being rewarded for the mayhem he caused).

The only thing that dampened his excitement was the dead doe, whose only crime was standing in perfect sight for a clean kill. Tyelkormo did not want to linger too long on how her face tugged at his heart; he wanted to remain proud of doing something right, and let his eyes wander from her.

“I am very pleased” his father began, “You have proven yourself an incredible marksman. I always knew you had a talent hiding within you, and with your strength, I have no doubt you will be one of the best hunters of our kin, and your hunts will be told as great stories one day.” Fëanáro said, still smiling, as he placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder.

But Tyelkormo’s attention was on a small rustle by some birches. “Atar, look there, beneath the brush!” Tyelkormo gestured with his bow. “The doe was nurturing a fawn, and I have certainly doomed her! Two kills were not my intent, at least not in such a manner…”

His father paused, turning slowly to look down at his son’s pensive expression, and was quiet for a moment, “Do not worry for the fawn; you have not doomed her. The lord of the hunt will watch over her. She does not need to die on this day as well. You may find that you will meet her again.”

Tyelkormo looked up to meet his eyes.

“She will not be such an easy target then, and you will be glad you spared her tonight for the thrill of that hunt. Patience, Turkafinwë.”

Tyelkormo felt a bit of discouragement settle in his chest. How he wanted to be free from patience, and act on impulse and enjoy the moment.

He chose not to let the discouragement stay too long, taking a deep breath and remembering where he was. He was in the forest, not in a stuffy art studio, or in stiff formal robes in the presence of no one he wished to speak to. He was outside with clean air, and land to be explored, and he had killed his first white-tail!

“Come,” Fëanáro said, lifting his own gear. “We must show your mother your prize.”

Eventually Tyelkormo grew tall enough and strong enough to venture by himself, treading further and further each day from the safety of Tirion, and often he thought of the lord of the hunt whom his father mentioned and whom he knew of from the stories his grandfather told him.

Fëanáro was known for being a welcomed guest in Aulë’s forge, and spoke at times of the other Valar, and Tyelkormo had met Aulë himself. But still, he cared not for the hot forge, or for the properties of metal and the faceting of gemstones. Instead he would ask for Yavanna, to learn of the different plants and trees, but although she was Aulë’s spouse she rarely abode with him. She was not really who Tyelkormo wished to speak with anyway.

He wished to seek out Oromë.

Oromë, who had found his kin at Cuiviénen and protected them. Oromë, who unlike so many of the Ainur was not concerned with making things, but instead with hunting, and with killing the evil of the world. Oromë, who he felt would understand him in a way that his brothers, and even his parents, did not.

And on the eve of his coming of age, Tyelkormo told his family that he was setting out to find the lord of the hunt at last. And his father said to him “Turkafinwë, I am glad for you. I wish you all of your haste in finding him, and it is my hope that he become a mentor to you, as Aulë was to me. But know that often he rides in lands far from Tirion. Do not be discouraged should you not find him, and do not be discouraged to return to our house. But you have a strong heart, and a stronger body, and all my sons know determination quite well.”

But Tyelkormo was proud, and knew when his father was telling him it was okay to fail, as he had so often failed when asked to create something, and it made him all the more determined to be successful in his search. He took few provisions and left on foot when the last lights of Laurelin waned, but he knew that he would find the one he sought.

//

Tyelkormo’s expedition was not going as planned.

He has walked far to the north and west, further away from home than he had ever been. It had begun to snow and the trees were becoming shorter, but he was still in a deep wood. He brought no horse with him and founding himself wanting for more furs as it was far colder than he had ever experienced. He knew he was far from the coast, which brought warm winds into the cities, and there were icy patches on the ground that he was not used to walking over.

Still, he pressed on. It was just like another hunt, although this time he was not seeking out game to kill. But he still felt hunger roll in his stomach and knew he should find something with which to feed himself. He had passed white hares almost a mile back, and if he did not know where the one he sought was to begin with, there was certainly no harm in backtracking.

As the light of Laurelin waned for the fifth time since he left Tirion, Tyelkormo felt the snow beneath him become more difficult to walk on, and although he did not sink into it, his footing became less sure.

It was then that he saw a doe pass behind a copse not too far ahead. Silently he notched an arrow, and made to pursue her (with some difficulty due to his feet sliding beneath him). He managed to stalk her without noise for one hundred paces before his left foot slid out from under him and he was forced to grab a branch for support. But it snapped, startling the doe who fled from the sound, and Tyelkormo collided with the tree as he fell.

“Valar damn,” he hissed, his feet scrambling to try to get traction once more. He eventually righted himself, palm stinging from scrapes from the tree branch, his face bloody. The doe was gone, and so was his food.

He cast himself down, back against the tree, and his father’s words ran through his mind once more. He was still very young, he knew that, but he had longed to meet Oromë for decades. Perhaps Fëanáro was right and the Vala was far away in distant lands, and his halls could be located anywhere in Aman. Tyelkormo realized he could have asked, but he was too proud, and too eager to find him on his own.

“So hasty, so impatient. Tyelkormo, you fool.” He murmured, gingerly touching his head as he became acutely aware of the cloudiness at the edge of his vision. He heard a rustling nearby, and saw the doe dart past, blurry, running in the opposite direction she had fled. He tried to track her but could not focus his eyes, and another shape passed before him. A bear it seemed, perhaps in pursuit of the dinner that was supposed to be his. Perhaps, Tyelkormo thought as the shape stopped to regard him, choosing to feast on him instead, although he did not feel as threatened as he should. The fogginess was getting stronger and he could not blink it away, and he could see red droplets in the snow. Blood, which was no doubt his own, caused from his own inability to handle this barren terrain!

He squeezed his eyes shut. He was despairing, he knew, but he had longed so badly to be good at something, and to feel as though he were a part of a family to which he belonged. And he had also longed so badly for someone to relate to, who shared his interests and his insatiable wanderlust, and who would stop demanding him to just be patient.

Tyelkormo was aware of the coldness against his skin, and the feeling of something rolling him on his back, but he could not see it. And he did not care much anymore, because he had lost the feeling in his body, and his strength of mind along with it.

//

When Tyelkormo awoke, he was not where he expected to be.

There were brown furs over him and on the bed (if it could indeed be called a bed), and a warm mass at his left side. This, at least, he recognized to be a large hound, blinking sleepily at him as he repositioned his head on his great paws.

Tyelkormo felt like he should have been more alarmed, and he made to sit up but was stopped suddenly when a wave of cold nausea washed over him, making his arms seem boneless as he let himself fall back down on the furs.

“Careful there, stag.”

Tyelkormo squinted into the half-light as a lanky figure emerged across from him, partly illuminated by Telperion’s faint rays. The figure seemed pale as the snow outside, with high cheekbones and a washed out pout to his lips, which matched his skin. He moved into the light to reveal an angular face and short, thistly hair, which also matched his skin.

Somewhere close by, perhaps outside, Tyelkormo could hear black-caps calling out their songs, and other tunes he did not recognize.

“Where am I?” he asked, keeping his voice steady as he tried to ignore the dull ache coming to reside in his left temple. He could see that the figure, a maia he supposed, by the way his eyes glistened silver without the help of the light, had reached out a hand as one of the birds fluttered in through the window.

The maia laughed, a tin-like and fleeting sound, as he examined the black-cap perched on his finger. “Varda’s girdle. Where do you think?” His voice was so soft and blended almost seamlessly with the low whistling he gave in reply to the bird. Or was it an order? Tyelkormo could not tell, and he did not like this maia in front of him, especially when feeling so weak-limbed (how he hated to not feel strong).

“Who are you?” Tyelkormo asked, his voice not as loud as before. The hound at his side whined and flexed his paws before settling down again, almost as if implying not to ask questions.

“My apologies,” said the maia, louder, as he placed his right hand to his chest and dipped his head slightly, as was the custom of the Noldor when greeting (though Tyelkormo could not deny a trace of mockery in his voice). “I am known to your kind as Tilion. And I have been given orders to be sure that you wake. And that you drink this.” He produced a small vial containing a tincture from a pouch on his hip, and the mockery that Tyelkormo noticed was certainly in his smile.

Tyelkormo opened his mouth to reply, wanting to flat out refuse to consume anything given by this maia (and words his father once said resurfacing in his brain) but the hound next to him shifted again and put his head on Tyelkormo’s stomach. Tyelkormo let the urge to protest pass over him, the pain in his temple coming back to camp there.

“This hound, is he yours?” He asked instead, aware of the weakness in his voice.

Tilion’s smile widened, a crooked thing which revealed slightly spaced out teeth, and huffed an amused “No.” in response. He placed the tincture on the carved tree stump next to the bed, sliding it to just within Tyelkormo’s reach, and passed beyond his sight without looking back.

Tyelkormo closed his eyes, not touching the vial, and felt the hound upon him sigh.

//

The hound was gone and the light was mingling.

Tyelkormo wondered how long he had slept, the fogginess of his mind had not yet fully dissipated. He could smell the earth and the birds outside still sang, and there was the quietness all around him that he could not find in Tirion.

The pain in his temple throbbed, but he could not stay in one place any longer, the air becoming too stale for him despite the cold air just outside, and his whole body ached from lack of use. He had injured himself before but never to the point of lost consciousness, and although he was often too restless to blend the waking world and the world of dreams as his mother often did, he found himself wanting for a more comfortable place to lay still, and he was not good at ignoring his wants.

Carelessly, he rose to his feet (noticing for the first time there was no floor at all in this place, just the soft soil under his toes) and swayed only slightly as he stepped out of the small room. He also noticed for the first time that one wall of the room was entirely the trunk of a large oak, and the hallway outside was of dirt and rock and root on one side.

Slowly, but unafraid, he passed through what he could only call hallways. Some of the walls appeared as though of tree trunks woven together, and some were covered in thick vines, and always one side (his left side) allowed the light to show through and the breeze to come dancing in, along with the winter birds and snowflakes. He found the openness of the place comforting, and it never felt vacant or lonely, as the marble hallways of Tirion often did. Even the shadows here were comforting, some of them moving, some of them revealing themselves as small animals.

And every so often as he walked, he caught the glimpse of something larger just beyond him, or behind him, bear-shaped now, then appearing closer to his own form, then simply a shape in the dead moss and the shadows of the oaks, or the dampness on the stone.

Eventually, when he had wandered furthest from the light outside (perhaps towards the center of the enclosure, though he felt as if he were going around in circles, and this was not where he had planned to go) he felt the presence return again, but larger and more solid, although he could not see it yet. Not even when he turned, it was still just a presence, or was it a flickering among the tree trunks? The occasional hint of amber gleaming so dimly that he wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. A rustling so soft that he was sure the sound existed only between his ears, deep in his mind, or not at all, yet somehow was still _there,_ and massive and overpowering.

 _(I see you, son of F_ ë _an_ á _ro,_ it says.

 _I found you, son of F_ ë _an_ á _ro.)_

He blinked, placing a hand to his temple, the presence gone. Had he injured himself so badly that he was seeing things? Memories surfaced of his mother telling him that he inherited his father’s lack of self-preservation. Oh, if she could see him now, disoriented and bandaged in a woodland hollow, the location of which even he did not know. The words she would have for him...

(But he didn’t care about that anymore, he had decided it. He only cared about finding the lord of the hunt).

He turned back toward the passage, to lean into the earth wall there, but instead felt a hand. And an arm, steadying him, and the other grasping his shoulders.

“You should not be waking, you should not be wandering.” Came a voice so low and so deep it was as if the very core of the earth had opened and was humming a song which resonated in Tyelkormo’s ribs and made his heart seize.

“You—” He began, and he knew who it was. The eyes he looked into flickered to a warm gold, the only color illuminating an otherwise umber face (with vines tangling over high and sharp cheekbones and a strong brow).

“Hush, there is time for introduction later, young one.”

“No,” Tyelkormo said, louder, pushing away from the figure but not letting go. “I have been looking for you! I heard you, and long have I wanted to heed your call, and I have found you, at last I have found you!”

Eyes flickered gold again, and stirred something deep in Tyelkormo’s gut, an angry lick of fire and the knowledge that _no, no it was him who found me_. He railed against it, pulling himself up straighter as those eyes settled back into an amused amber and leveled a calculating glance at him.

“My name is Tyel--”

“I know who you are, Tyelkormo Turkafinwë. And I know what doom has brought you here, to my House.”

Tyelkormo felt his knees weaken, and he lowered himself (by choice, he told himself) to one knee, looking up at the impressive and impossibly dark mass of the figure before him. “Let me serve you. I pledge myself to you, Lord Oromë.” He said, bowing his head (not because he felt dizzy, he told himself, not because he lacked the strength, he told himself).

He felt hands turn his face upwards, and felt more than heard another low hum. “Not now, not quite so soon.”

He did not remember what happened next.

//

Tyelkormo awakened at the next waxing of Laurelin, half wondering what strange dream had been sent to him. Except he was still in the halls made of trees, and laying among soft furs, and the hound was by his side again, and there was another, larger figure there as well, more fully shaped than before. The pain that ached his temple was nearly gone and he felt everything with shocking clarity, and could hear the black-caps again. There was fresh snow outside, and red berries dusted with white, and everything seemed calmed and still. He narrowed his eyes at the branches, as if seeing them for the first time.

The shape shifted beside him. “You are stubborn as a stag in its first years, Tilion was correct.”

Tyelkormo’s eyes widened as he recognized the voice, and his head snapped around.

“An interesting quality, very fitting for a son of Fëanáro. The children of Iluvatar heal fast, but you rebound with more strength than any I have previously encountered.”

“Lord Oromë.” Tyelkormo said, lowering his gaze, remembering the words he spoke to the Vala ( _hastily_ , he chastised himself, _that was not how it was supposed to go_ ). “I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

“I did not leave you. I cannot deny aid to those children who seek me so willingly, and,” a pause which turned into a silence, and a thought, although Tyelkormo was unsure if he heard it correctly, _and_ _I find your determination endearing._

Tyelkormo grinned, but was met with a scrutinizing look. “I must query you, son of Fëanáro.”

He felt his heart pound, wanting to climb up into his throat. Anything, anything to prove himself to the one he dreamed of serving since he was a child.

“I want to ask why you have chosen to enter into my House—no, that is false, I know why.” Oromë looked at him with that even gaze, the one that made Tyelkormo’s heart race as it glowed. “I ask to hear it from _you_. I ask to hear it in your words, not as a line from the song I know.”

Tyelkormo smiled wider (the smile where he pulled back his lip a bit too much, as his mother would say, like a wolf), and felt his eagerness to prove himself catch him quicker than his brains. “My Lord Oromë, it is because—”

He stuttered and broke off. Oromë shifted again, leaning back and folding his hands together with what Tyelkormo knew as patience, but he found it did not chafe him like the patience of his parents.

But Tyelkormo pressed on, heedless of the gesture and invitation to take his time, “It is because I—” but he broke off again, not quite knowing how to articulate himself. How was he to explain? He had never been so good with words, like his father, and was convinced his father failed to pass along yet another of his great talents to him…

A voice, gentler than before, found its way into his mind. _Compare yourself not with him, he is not here. He does not hear the same song._

“There it is.” Tyelkormo whispered, and he hastily reached for Oromë (surely not to steady himself, no, this realization was not quite so shocking), and was pleased when he saw those eyes turn back to a gold that was brighter than the light. “It was because I heard your song.” He spoke the words slowly, almost unsure of them, and as he looked at Oromë he knew what to ask. “Teach me to sing it with you?”

And he felt a sense of warmth, and of welcome, like he had never felt before in his life, and a laugh a filled the room and was in the earth beneath them and in the roots of the oak and in the stone (and Tyelkormo felt in his bones and felt it in his blood). And a hand adorned with the likeness of vines and thorns covered his, and he felt what he could only call _alive_. And he smiled again, showing all of his teeth, and Orome smiled back, a honey-warm thing that betrayed his face and the song of the wilderness and the death of evil and the glory that was Oromë’s being.

“Very well, Tyelkormo Turkafinwë, I welcome you to my hunt.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Inspired by this post which I saw a long time ago, and wished ever since to read it as a Celegorm/Oromë fic.
> 
> 2\. Title from Robert Frost.
> 
> 3\. Happy Birthday again, darling. I hope you enjoy this. <3


End file.
